


snow on mirrors, future killers

by babypapaya



Series: skincare and startups [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty Pageant, Crack, Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22183633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babypapaya/pseuds/babypapaya
Summary: Charles Leclerc may be the beauty queen, but Daniel Ricciardo is the one who makes it happen.Beauty pageant AU: Daniel has been Charles' coach for four years. They compete for the crown at Miss Europe 2020, but there's an unexpected competitor who complicates proceedings.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Daniel Ricciardo
Series: skincare and startups [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1648057
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52





	snow on mirrors, future killers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Directionless_Foray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Directionless_Foray/gifts).

> gender? don’t know her! ahead you will see butchery of pronouns as men compete as pageant girls and I refuse to explain a thing. let’s call it mix and match; doesn’t pass the bechdel test. this was the most fun thing I've written in my life.
> 
> for directionless_foray, because of everything. <3

It's the tackiest thing in his apartment, but this garishly shiny, satin polyester fabric has a horrible siren call's hold over him. Sometimes the glorified ribbons are burnt a crunchy brown where the ends have been flame-singed to prevent unravelling, and the rhinestones from his oldest crowns are beginning to fall out as the glue dries up. They click on the shelf as they scatter. 

Charles picks them up before he dusts, and keeps them, glittering plasticly in a little dish beside his crowns and commemorative pins. His sashes hang above them.

Mini Miss Monaco, the first pageant he won, at 14.

Monegasque Mademoiselle, age 16. 

La Petite Princesse de France was the big victory, at 17. Despite the controversy that year regarding his validity in the French community, his triumph clinched the opportunity to compete in adult pageants the next year.

First runner-up for Queen of Iberia. That loss still tastes bad in his mouth, but he hangs the sash anyway and tries not to think about the doe-eyed Spaniard who won the crowd with perfect hair and a self-conscious grin that Charles swears was practiced. But he has to admit the boy's accent was heart-stopping, and sometimes he thinks about him anyway.

Princess of Monaco. Miss Southern Sunshine. Miss Mediterranean Lady. Mouthfuls of names that mean less than the time it takes to say them, just one region after the next falling before him, like some Roman general of antiquity claiming her empire.

Miss Monaco. Qualified to compete at the next level up.

The next hook on the wall is empty. That's where Miss Europe 2020 will hang the blue and gold proof of victory, if Charles has anything to say about it.

* * *

Charles may be the one with something to say, but Daniel Ricciardo is the one who makes it happen. 

Miss Australia at age 20, second runner-up in Miss World, and crowned Miss Universe the year after, Daniel Ricciardo's show-stopping grin is long retired from the pageant stage. He works in the wings now, one of the world's most sought-after pageant coaches for the last eight years, and he's worked exclusively with Charles for four, ever since he hit the adult pageant circuit.

Charles doesn't step off a plane without two security blankets: custom Ray-Bans on his face and Daniel by his side, hair and makeup kit in hand. 

Sometimes he feels like he's more Daniel than himself now; so many pieces of himself have been strategically extracted and replaced with a mechanical perfection. His walk, heel to toe with a fluid grace meant to showcase the best of a narrow waist and slim hips. His smile, straightened and chemically whitened by Daniel's favourite cosmetic dentist, and there's a whisper about lip fillers on the gossip sites, but Daniel laughs in the face of any journos who ask until they slink away, still unsure. His skin, glowing healthily from precisely-counted minutes on the tanning bed, but patted with sunscreen before any step outdoors. He hasn't seen his nails bare for a year—a clear coat protects them whenever he's not wearing acrylics. 

His life is a never-ending bootcamp of _ How to Look Perfect, _ led with endless commands from Daniel:

_ "Pat _ in your moisturiser, if you drag it all over your face in every direction you're only doing gravity's job for her."

"Absolutely _ zero _ hotel conditioners, Charlie boy; the silicones in that shit will kill your texture faster than I'll kill _ you." _

"No linen on flights, or you'll disembark looking like a dog's bed; wool is best but impractical so go for a poly blend." 

"The only thing you'll pack that's more important than me is a travel humidifier. Use it. Nothing will fuck you harder than dry hotel air, and trust me, she's not fun in bed."

So Charles packs his humidifier, presses in his face cream, rinses his hair in cold water, drinks spearmint tea to suppress testosterone related acne, and he wins. He keeps winning. He's at least placed in every pageant he entered in the last two years, and he wins most of them. 

He won Miss Southern Sunshine the week after his father passed, mouthing his way through a personal interview on what family means to him. Daniel said it would be okay if he cried on stage after the bouquet was placed in his arms, but he didn't. He didn't cry backstage either, nor on the plane home, and Daniel never asked about it, but he kept his hand on Charles' shoulder. And Charles never shrugged it off.

At the end of this, what will he have? A university degree that sounds good on stage, when in reality he was too busy to make half his lectures? Charles is shamefully familiar to his small grey-market network of professional essay-writers. He passes proctored exams with the help of his best friend, Ritalin. What future comes when he's just too old to have the smoothest face on stage? What if—and he barely dares to look this far ahead—he wins one of the Big Four pageants and there's nowhere to go _ up _ anymore? Whether through success or failure, his career is going to bottom out spectacularly—soon. Daniel doesn't talk about this. 

Charles supposes he could be a coach, too. 

He could be a coach if he had a functionally empathetic bone in his body, and he's fully aware of his lack of one. There's a demand for them—Fabian Vettel is following his brother’s steps to dominate junior competitions in the continent, and whoever coaches him to an inevitable Big Four victory will have the privilege of a lifetime—but Charles barely manages to guide his own emotions, nevermind curate the public face of a whole other person. 

He's essentially a professional in being himself. How could he turn that into focusing on anyone else? There's a reason why his social initiative is traffic safety: he’s not some Fernando Alonso with an innovative support programme for underprivileged children in athletics. That landslide win was over a decade ago, but Charles is sure Fernando still has his Miss Europe crown.

Charles is a pageant girl, he's probably an egomaniac, but he knows he'll never be sure of it. Daniel could turn it around in himself, but he's different. Daniel is magic and everyone knows it.

Charles needs some magic to win Miss Europe 2020. 

* * *

In Brussels, Charles steps off the plane on Daniel's arm, as always. A few dutiful flashes from a handful of pageant paparazzi glint off his shades as they breeze out of the arrivals terminal. The photos will hit twitter in a few hours and he'll critique them later. He'll see Daniel glowing as always in his beauty-guru-pageant-coach-extraordinaire uniform of destroyed black skinny jeans and splashy silk top of the day, with colour-coded sneakers to match. He's so fucking pretentious, wearing _ silk _ on a _ plane, _ but he's Daniel Ricciardo, and it works. He'll see himself in a monochrome baby pink ensemble, slouchy cable-knit sweater half tucked into a tea-length tulle skirt tumbling in frothy asymmetric layers over velvet over-the-knee boots with just enough heel to have made his flight attendants wonder if he was comfortable. He wasn't. It didn't matter. 

Daniel squeezes his arm gently and Charles lifts his hand in a half wave, but his duffel is slipping off his shoulder and he shoves it back up quickly. He grimaces, and Daniel squeezes his arm again. "It's okay, they're not judging you _ here," _ he whispers. "Let's get you to the venue, pumpkin. You’ve got a meet and greet with Lewis Hamilton and the other girls at two and you’ll want to change before then. That's your only pageant duty for today but you'll want to speak to the press sometime, and then we'll set up your dressing room backstage. We'll grab dinner—" he checks his watch— "on the way back to the hotel, hopefully around six. Then a stage lighting makeup test—I'll scout out the colour tones while you're at the meet and greet—and we'll do a final try-on for your red carpet dress, then you get your winning beauty queen butt into bed while I make any alterations. Sounds good?"

Charles nods firmly. "Sounds good. Thank you, Daniel."

"We're going to win this. No doubt about it. _ You're _ going to win this."

* * *

“I’m going to win this,” Charles repeats to himself, but it’s through gritted teeth. The pageant venue is expansive; the lobby well lit with natural light that sparkles off the sequins on the girls’ dresses. It would be gorgeous to a man less fixated than he is, but there’s been an inauspicious start to the competition: Charles locks eyes with a doe-eyed Spaniard less than a minute after sweeping through the doors. 

“Fuck,” he hisses to Daniel, gesturing carefully with an open hand, “who is he again?”

“Language, sugarcube,” Daniel says absently, scanning the crowd. The stranger has already turned away but Daniel knows everyone, even the backs of their heads. "Fuck, that's Carlos. Sainz. Miss Universe second runner up 2018."

"Queen of Iberia 2016," Charles whispers, pleasant smile belying the anxiety in his tone. "I will not lose to him again."

Daniel pats his hand. "Get in the press line and smile, babe, shake some hands. Hug Miss Italy, you two will be close matched this year. I'll sniff out what's up with Carlos, psych him out a little." Daniel grins and Charles' smile softens into something real. "I'll circle back in fifteen and fill you in. Go on, skedaddle."

Charles nods readily and Daniel slips away. The lobby is crowded and Charles melts into the people, passing through pockets of conversation as he glides over to the flashes of cameras and a backdrop of logos so cluttered it makes his vision go fuzzy. 

“...heard Button’s judging again this year, so…”

“—my god, he’s not wearing the same dress…”

“ —and we’re still waiting on the qualification approval—”

“...if they go then Miss Europe will need a _ drastic _ face-lift—” 

Charles’ smile is brilliant. His hands are soft and in the press line he takes Miss Italy’s hands in his own with genuine warmth. He’s always liked Antonio Giovinazzi, as well as any pageant girls can like each other, and Charles poses for a photo with his lips pressed to her cheek. Cameras flash and time blurs.

Daniel reappears and slings an arm around Charles' shoulder, careful not to disturb the Miss Monaco sash as he steers his protégé from the press line. "Good news, honeybun: you won't lose to Carlos Sainz." 

Charles raises an eyebrow and leans into Daniel's arm. "Oh? That is good to know. Why?"

"He's not competing." 

Charles pulls away, perplexment written across his brows. “Wait, what? Then why is he here?” 

"He's coaching, the cutest little killer out there. Miss UK. You heard of Lando Norris, too?"

* * *

Charles can’t keep his eyes off of her. She’s truly the cutest little killer out there, all coral blush and bouncing curls and a little Peter Pan collar buttoned up to the throat. Lando’s dress is glistening beaded cream organza, cut with cap sleeves and a high hem that should have left him all gawky limbs, but instead he’s just glowing tan and slim legs, and Charles doesn’t know how he feels when Lando turns to peek over his shoulder and their eyes meet. 

Jealous, probably. But Daniel didn’t raise a jealous girl, so Charles doesn’t know the feeling anymore. 

“Shine on no matter who’s shining beside you, sugar plum. Save your energy for yourself.”

Charles remembers this.

So he clasps Lando’s hand when they turn to each other, and Lando’s pale blush-painted nails cut into his skin a little but he doesn’t feel it, and when Lewis greets them with an appraising eye he’ll see the two girls’ hands still joined. Lando taps one of Charles’ dimples with a little finger and Charles pulls one of his curls in reply and Lewis laughs in the middle of the conversation and they both blush. 

“...my best wishes to Daniel, eh Charles?” Lewis seeks earnest eye contact. 

“Ah _mais oui, merci,”_ he says smoothly, ducking his head a little and peeking up at his practiced best angle. “I will let him know. Thank you.”

Lewis turns to Lando. “And _ you’re _ certainly not letting Britain down." 

“Clear footsteps of a legend to follow in, sir,” Lando replies, smiling angelically. 

Lewis dips a glance at Lando’s footwear and raises an eyebrow approvingly. “Are you wearing the—”

“Bottega Veneta mesh pumps? Yeah,” Lando grins cheekily. “I am.”

Lewis squeezes the girl’s shoulder and murmurs something about bold shoes to for new paths, and moves on. 

Charles thinks, _ maybe Lando is going to win this. _

* * *

Daniel’s fingers are warm on his arm as Charles is steered backstage to his dressing room. He asks how the session went. 

Charles knows he already knows. _ "Lando Norris?” _ he complains anyway. “I have heard but I thought he was _ nineteen!" _

"Just turned twenty. Keep your eyes open, babe."

"He's lovely," Charles notes, absently but critically. 

"But you're going to win this, cupcake," Daniel says distractedly. "Here. We've got room 16.”

There’s a gift basket on the dressing table stacked with snacks he won’t eat. Daniel’s already unpacked most of his gowns earlier and there’s a handheld garment steamer lying in the middle of the floor. 

"Oh, and Lewis sends his best wishes to you," Charles remembers to report, sitting in his styling chair. He lines up his hair products on the edge of his mirror vanity and flicks the switch on the ring light.

Daniel mutters something about _ that old battleaxe, that old goat, _ but he’s grinning. Charles watches him in the mirror. “I’m not a man to show cowardice, _ mon petit chou, _ but even I’ll admit I’m glad I never went head to head with Hamilton.”

“Miss Universe _ and _Miss World.”

“Two years, back to fuckin' back.”

“Founder of the Miss Earth pageant.”

“Unbroken streak of crowns for _ six years _ in junior and local pageants.”

“Maybe you were a coward after all you talk about your balls…” Charles trails off and deliberately looks away. 

Daniel swats him with the itinerary folder. Charles flips him off in the mirror, and Daniel moves behind the styling chair and pats his cheek. “Come on, peanut, you love me.”

Charles does.

* * *

It’s a few days of cute dresses and team-building exercises, group selfies, and flirting with the judges before the final, televised day on stage. He suits up, sits in his styling chair endlessly while Daniel presses fine layers of powders and creams into his face, brushing every last brow hair and sealing the look with a peachy nude lip. The gown comes next, a sleek emerald thing with a dangerously high slit in the skirt and an asymmetric neckline showcasing defined collarbones. The zipper is absurdly hard to do up for a dress he won’t wear longer than half an hour. 

"Alright, Charles, kill 'em." In the wings, Daniel presses a kiss to his forehead and steps away, and Charles suddenly feels the lack a constant warm hand on his back. But he smiles, and it's brilliant and real and the last thing Daniel sees before Charles pivots.

A distant voice announces the entrance of _ our next contestant, _ and he’s grateful for every step that Daniel would march him around with a book on his head. _ Chin up, buttercup, shoulders back, use your hips, no no no okay, yes, I’m adding another book. Good girl, hands on your hips. _ It’s easier than breathing now and he breezes onto the stage, all his focus in his smile, right on beat with the echoing remix of some pop anthem stripped of its vocals. He can feel it in his bones and that’s right where he wants it—the perfect cue to flip a switch in his mind, because everything from here needs to flow like the magic he practiced it as. There’s no time for thinking. 

Floating up to the microphone, he graces the auditorium with a sweeping glance and a gleam in his eye. “Student at the University of Monaco pursuing International Relations, I am Charles Leclerc, your Miss Monaco.” He pivots, pauses. _ “Merci mille fois,” _ he tosses over his shoulder with the shiniest smile of all. They eat that shit up. They always do. 

For his red carpet look he changes into a dusty royal blue gown sprinkled with crystals and threaded with silver ribbons snaking around his body trailing onto the floor, and he blows a kiss to the world when the camera circles nearby. He’s in chiffon again for the talent competition, airy mauve layers that never quite settle as he twirls across the stage, this time with a mesmerising silver ribbon in his hand, and no one in the audience can look away.

_ Daniel knows his shit, _ Charles thinks. 

Lando almost trips over the carpet as he backs away from the microphone after his introduction, but he laughs it off and from that moment the judges are wrapped around his little finger. 

Charles smiles beatifically and the other girls on stage feel blessed when he touches their shoulders and laughs with them, and the group is cut down to ten, and he’s still there, of course. There’s a commercial break and he skips backstage to let Daniel revolutionise him, and he floats out onstage again in his final interview gown, and his lips are crimson and the dress is a perfect match, the bodice sheer and encrusted with just enough sequins to keep it dangerous, and the skirt a satin almost cape-like in its drape. He takes the microphone at his turn and tilts his head and speaks perfectly, and everyone claps and he forgets everything he replied to the formulaic question as soon as he steps back and lowers his hand from its wave. 

Another girl speaks. He stops as the music quiets, and there are two women stepping on stage, interrupting the host and bearing an envelope and worried faces. Miss Sweden wordlessly hands over the microphone and steps back. 

“We’re _ so _ sorry to be announcing this now, but—” and everything clicks. 

Charles knows it before he hears it. _ “If they go then Miss Europe will need a drastic face-lift.” _ Qualification approval. _ Dieu, _ he hasn’t been thinking. “They” wasn’t a girl, “they” was—he turns to watch Lando across the stage when he hears _ general election. _ If the UK leaves the EU then the competition will practically be overhauled. Of course, they _ are _leaving. The election was last year. Lando’s smile crumples. 

“ —and we apologise for the late confirmation of disqualification.” They look guilty, but leave the stage without a word more.

_ Lando’s not disqualified, _ Charles thinks. _ He was just never qualified in the first place. _

Charles doesn’t even bite his lip. It’s not as though Monaco is part of the EU, but no one has bothered him about it since he won in France. No one on the pageant board blinked at the cheque he’d cut either. He’s in for life, and Daniel doesn’t rock the boat. The UK can’t say as much. Charles would know—he’s an IR major.

He won’t ask how Lando’s family voted.

But across the stage Lando’s sinking to his knees with his hands over his mouth, and Misses Ireland and Slovakia are looking helpless beside him. Charles shoulders past them muttering some French platitudes and grips Lando’s shoulders, one cold hand on warm bare skin and the other on the generous twist of tulle gathered on the one-shouldered dress. “Ah, don’t cry, _ minette, _ don’t cry,” he soothes, hoping the awkwardness of his consolation buries itself in his accent. 

“Fuck,” Lando spits, and it’s not a sob but it’s getting there. Charles suddenly understands why Daniel’s always on his neck about swearing—it’s an ugly word from a girl this dainty. “I don’t know—I don’t know why _ now.” _

“Shhh,” he hushes, pulling her into a quick hug. Patting someone on the back is so awkward. “Don’t worry, okay? Just don’t. It will be better.”

Lando nods but there’s the beginning of a tear in his eyes, and Charles turns to shield him from the crowds. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll see you at Miss Universe, okay? You’re already qualified.”

“It’s really not fair, I’m this far—” Lando says uncertainly, and lifts his hand to rub his eyes. 

Charles hisses. “No, you’ll smudge— stop.” He sacrifices the cuff of his sleeve to blot the tears in Lando’s wide eyes. “There. It will be okay,” he says, but it sounds awkward. “I know—I know you’re a winner,” he says honestly, even as it pains him to form the words. “You’ll fight again.”

Lando nods again but it’s slightly hysteric and Charles can’t tell if he’ll burst out laughing or into tears. “I just want to go,” Lando says. He gives one last wave over his shoulder to the crowd but doesn’t deign to speak. 

“Okay.” Charles squeezes his hand and guides him offstage. 

He hands the pageant girl off to her coach in the wings, and the flash in Carlos’ eyes has a little more anger than just recognition, but Charles says nothing through the stare-down. Carlos cedes.

“Thank you,” he says coolly, and folds Lando into his arms with a little more love than just support. “And congratulations.”

Charles raises an eyebrow and smiles, then glides back to centre stage. Miss Italy squeezes his hand.

“It is…” Antonio scrambles for the phrase. “In the bag,” he whispers into Charles’ ear.

Charles grips his hand a little tighter and they wait for order. There’s a black smudge on his sleeve. 

* * *

No one else could have won, after that. Antonio’s beaming in his second runner-up sash and cradling an armful of roses and he gives one to Miss Finland, and Charles has the presence of mind to scan the blinding crowd to see Kimi Raikkonen faintly smiling at his two protégés. A comparatively hands-off coach, but a legend. 

But no one else could have won, and he’s standing there centre-stage clutching Miss Sweden’s hands and Marcus Ericsson knows as well as anyone that Charles Leclerc is going to win, but their hands are sweaty and they whisper excitedly anyway and the host is still dramatically unfolding her papers, and the music changes. The confetti starts to fall.

Everyone knows that Charles is going to win, but he still gasps and covers his mouth as they say his name, and he reaches for Marcus again but he’s already out of reach and draped with his own first runner-up sash, but Antonio is there and the two girls hug and Antonio is crying, and Charles thinks he might be crying, but when he looks up his face is dry, because he knows exactly what he’s doing. Charles knows how to win. 

He brushes confetti from his hair and it’s replaced with the crown, and on his chest is the sash with the words he’s waited years for. The blue and gold look like they belong on the red gown, and the crowd is deafening as Charles lets himself look up into the spotlights. The doomsday clock in his chest ticks once more, and his smile is so real and wide that it hurts, but there’s nowhere else to be but here. Daniel said so, and you wouldn’t want to disappoint Daniel.

* * *

Daniel’s not disappointed. He doesn’t even eye Charles’ shoes mischievously, just picks him up and spins him around, right there on the stage as soon as he’s allowed to appear. 

He’s roaring something incoherent and now Charles cries, and kisses Daniel on both cheeks and cries a little more, and Antonio is laughing at them but Charles breaks one rose from his bouquet and tucks it into Daniel’s curls. They take the post-pageant photos just like that, and Daniel’s hand is on Charles’ back again where it belongs. 

“‘m _ so _ proud of you, sugar cookie,” Daniel says a little breathlessly, between photos. Charles laughs and leans his head on Daniel’s shoulder. Today’s shirt is a black and white with peeks of red accents and Charles knows the choice was deliberate. It twists something in his heart to realise it. Daniel wanted them to match.

“I’m only here because of you,” he murmurs through a smile. The camera flashes and clicks and Charles turns to look at Daniel. “I don’t want to do any of this without you.”

“You don’t have to, Charlie boy.” The sound comes out a little more honest than usual.

_ Whatever, _ Charles thinks. _ Fine. _ “I don’t want to do _anything_ without you.”

A camera clicks again in the moment his soul is exposed. Neither of them are looking at the camera but it’s the only photo from the pageant that Daniel ends up framing for their apartment. 

“Trust me, Charles, neither do I.”

**Author's Note:**

> highkey the only research I did for this was watch Insatiable and Miss America 2019 and SORRY FOR THE POLITICS but it was funny. I have no idea how serious I mean this to be so just take it as you like.
> 
> keep it lowkey, keep it classy, keep it off twitter and out of real life and away from the drivers.
> 
> thanks for reading and for any comments!


End file.
